


as though it were your own vanishing song

by jencat



Series: I may know the word, but not say it [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 8.04 fix it, F/M, Fix-it fic, Stream of Consciousness, never has an episode needed fixing more, what am I even doing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-19
Updated: 2019-05-19
Packaged: 2020-03-07 22:13:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18882286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jencat/pseuds/jencat
Summary: "Look at yourself." He glaces up at her again, wide-eyed; at the steel back in her eyes again; in her voice.  And all that grief, frozen now in a fierce, bright moment of anger.   "You think I wouldn't notice you haven't slept in days; that you've barely eaten? And if that's the only kind of horseshit reasoning you have-- I'm not letting you go out there now, in the middle of the bloody night so you can end up frozen to death in a ditch somewhere on the Kingsroad."**8.04 was stupid and I fixed it.





	as though it were your own vanishing song

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Mary Oliver's The Loon on Oak-Head Pond
> 
> **  
> edited 11/7 for a final line fix :-)

_Mary Oliver - The Loon on Oak-Head Pond_

_\--cries for three days, in the gray mist._

_cries for the north it hopes it can find._

 

"She's hateful. And so am I"

He spits out the last of the poison, and tries to pull away; anything not to watch her break down like that.  _She's faced wights and bears and (somehow) even worse men than him before, and she's borne it all better than this--_

He tries to turn away, and-- "No. _Fuck_ , no."

He looks down, and she has a grip on his surcoat so tight her knuckles are showing white in the darkness.  There's nothing gentle there suddenly; nothing tender. He thinks, distantly, it might the kind of desperate grasp you'd have a comrade on the battlefield, about to go down in the mud, and _she knows it._

" _Look_ at yourself." He glaces up at her again, wide-eyed; at the steel back in her eyes again; in her voice.  And all that grief, frozen now in a fierce, bright moment of anger.   "You think I wouldn't notice you haven't slept in days; that you've barely eaten? And if that's the only kind of _horseshit_ reasoning you have-- I'm not letting you go out there now, _in the middle of the bloody night_ so you can end up frozen to death in a ditch somewhere on the Kingsroad."

He reaches for her hand again, still curled in his coat, because it's something he does without thinking now; has done for a while. And she shakes him, gently; sets him swaying. "Brienne..."

"Don't. Don't make me ask again." It's a flat warning; he understands that at least. That he'd frightened her, badly enough to be out here at all-- Let alone that there had been tears on her part; a debt that will not be forgiven easily, or well. She says, quieter, "You shouldn't have come to me tonight; you shouldn't have _stayed._ "

He doesn't have the words for that; and it's true and it isn't, all at the same time. He leans into her grip instead, because it's so much less difficult than trying to disentangle himself. "I have to--"

"Come back inside," She says, implacable, and it's not pleading now; it's an expectation; a plan of action. "Come inside, at least have some food.  And when it's light, if you still feel you need to go-- I won't stop you. But not in the dark. Not like this.  A few hours will make no difference at all."

He stands there, head bowed; feeling the weight of her gaze. She hasn't lessened her grip at all, and he thinks he still sways slightly at every minor shift in movement she makes. That the last few weeks have existed at all seems improbable; impossible in the darkness tonight. That there has always been this gaping chasm at the heart of himself, two sides of an abyss drawing further apart by the day, and he's run out of ways to reconcile it.  The dead fell, and he still woke up the next day, inexplicably-- and she was _still there_ ; the last thing left he had not managed to taint and sully and ruin as he had been ruined.

 

 --Except there's another war raging now, and _the world is burning down._  

 

And he can feel himself, charring at the edges with it even at this distance, like parchment held to a flame.

 

She ducks her head, tries to catch his eye, and says gentler, the faintest edge of mocking, "You don't think I can stop you? You're dead on your feet, Jaime. I'm standing out in the fucking snow wearing nothing but a robe, and I can still stop you. I _will_ , and I don't need a bloody sword to do it."

That these weeks have changed _her_ \-- that part is not so terrible, he hopes. That fierce, unthinking bravery she always wore is settled down into her skin now; lets her stalk out into the icy courtyard at Winterfell in only a robe and demand to be heard. And it takes more bravery than he ever had to not hear her; to pull away from her now. More strength than he has now, because she's right; his food has been tasting like ashes for days now.

He's still trying, though, because it's something worse than the fear of dishonour that has him out here tonight.  That there's been something burning down through his mind for a while now unbidden; a hot coal of terror and shame that can't be gathered somewhere safe; can't be contained. He knows she'll see it in his eyes, soon enough, and _that is why--_

And that's just the worst of it, perhaps. That he hasn't been able to think clearly, that every time he closes his eyes he sees flames, and blood, and something that could be the memory of Aerys and his threats of wildfire, or the thought of the Red Keep shattering under _dracarys_. He can't even tell now if the flames he sees are green or golden, but he sees them nonetheless, and some days they are all he sees.  He thinks perhaps Bran Stark had been trying to warn him, in his way, that day in the godswood, and he hadn't been paying enough attention at all.

He paid attention _later_ , of course, when he had time to think on it.  Far too much time, when the small hours stretched wakeful beyond endurance, and he lay watching her sleep-- knowing all too well she spends her days watching for him with worry etched on her face. That she sees his restlessness at having no part in this household; that he is barely there under Sansa's good grace for _her_ , and whatever guest-rights can be mustered, and he has had no practice at living out his days like this, _useless_  and waiting-- and it pains her. He watches her sleep, heart in his throat, after watching her catch her breath by firelight; watches her _laugh_  in a way that is new and delightful and like nothing he has ever heard.  He has watched her come apart beneath him, and watched her bury her face aside in the furs because she's still blushing, somehow, at his regard; at his hand trailing reverently down the long plane of her torso.

Ah, but there's the heart of it. A flood of memory and mercy and he thinks that might be all that's left of him. He closes his eyes again and there's nothing but fire and dead children, and the two sides of it will not be reconciled. He thinks. He tries.

He opens his eyes and swallows down the bile; looks up at her with something other than the hollow desperation of before-- and the world goes white at the edges, and the ground lets go of them for a moment.  

He hears her breath catch, distantly, at the sudden movement; a grunt of effort at holding them both upright when she's still gripping his surcoat so tightly-- but the packed earth of the courtyard is icy and unforgiving, and with the best will in the world, she can only catch them both enough that they end up kneeling rather than sprawled on the ground; the impact shuddering through him; her hands still tangled together in his jacket because she can't seem to let go.

The poor patient horse whickers at the commotion; steps sideways away from them, bridle clinking-- and Brienne glares at him, astonished somehow; kneeling upright with her robe in the beginning of some kind of disarray. And he can only stare wildly and unremember the last time she caught him falling.

She says raggedly, " _Inside, now._ " with an appropriate amount of outrage, and drags him upright again.

And he blinks, and stutters a breath, and he lets her.

**Author's Note:**

> When I say I wrote this with Natalie Merchant's I May Know The Word on repeat... I mean it kind of literally, I just played the damn 8 minute track on a loop for several hours because the lyrics are kind of what I was aiming for here,and I needed Brienne to not just let him go off to die or whatever, because, plot. I'm kind of hoping it's veering more towards a crisis of self rather than just 'Jaime is sleep-deprived and also an idiot' but y'know, I'll take that over the fuckery we were actually given in canon thus far.
> 
> Aaand the second part is not quite done, but I'm running out of time before the shit hits the metaphorical fan later today, and I quite like this one enough to post this part at least :-)
> 
> My background knowledge of GoT is a little lacking on occasion, and I haven't read the books... but apparently the fic will not leave me alone, so forgive any necessary fudging.


End file.
